Secrets. They would be the death of her.
‘Jeez!’ Bronx pulled back, putting a hand to his mouth. Pain made him angry before he checked himself. He couldn’t understand it, had tried and failed and tried again and would never quit trying because he adored this woman, plain and simple. Fame and riches didn’t matter. If anything, he preferred it when they forgot all about Turquoise’s celebrity, just the two of them in bed, she in his arms, fast asleep, breathing gently. He loved the way her eyelashes rested on her cheeks, the softness of her skin, the bead of perspiration that gathered in her philtrum when they made love. Those nights when she would moan in her sleep, in the throes of a private torture, and would wake in the small hours and stand alone by the window, arms folded, head tilted against the wall, pale and silent and closed off in the moonlight.
Why wouldn’t she let him in? What was she hiding?
‘What’s up with you?’ he asked gently.
Turquoise was shaking. She hated how that happened, the trembling, but it did, every time she wasn’t in control. ‘Leave,’ she managed.
‘Can’t we talk about this—? When can I see you?’
‘I’m sorry.’ She closed the door on his objections, collapsing against it and sinking to the floor, her head in her hands and the thick threat of tears in her throat.
It was minutes until the shivering subsided. Dragging herself together, Turquoise began to remove her clothes and make-up, gesturing robotically, stripping herself bare.
Why couldn’t she let go? Why couldn’t she move on? Bronx had never hurt her; she knew he never would. Yet every time she wasn’t the instigator she felt pinioned, backed into a corner against her will, the rising panic, the gathering dread, and worst of all the dead certainty that she couldn’t get away…
It was over. It was done with. Nobody had to know.
Turquoise da Luca was a superstar now. What did she have to be frightened of?
After the commotion of the shoot, the quiet of her personal space was both necessary and frightening. When she was busy, her mind didn’t wander: she was Turquoise, A-list diva, shatterproof, a twenty-six-year-old woman grown out of that past. When she was by herself, she remembered. The last thing she wanted was to remember.
She steadied herself against the dresser, her knuckles white. And yet…
She saw too much of the devil responsible. Charming his fans on TV, amiably chatting in gossip columns, inciting adulation on a string of blog posts and starring in a catalogue of acclaimed movies, his pristine white grin gleaming like an infinite taunt…
Cosmo Angel.
Hollywood royalty. Twenty-first-century idol. Bastard. An actor so spectacularly handsome it seemed impossible he was made of flesh and bone.
She knew what he was made of. She knew what lay beneath.
Cosmo had ruined her. He was evil. As long as he was breathing she knew there was no escape. She could play pretend but it would always be there, prowling beneath the surface, a swamp-like creature scourging the depths, choking her, suffocating her, making her pay.
Turquoise confronted the mirror, its frame spotlit with glowing pearls, the array of war paint scattered at its base: the tools of her disguise.
She stared at her reflection for a long time, not moving, until she began to see someone familiar looking back. A young girl, fear in her eyes, too afraid to object and too timid to speak out, beseeching, Why didn’t you save me sooner?
I couldn’t. I didn’t. And I’m sorry.
There was a brief, sharp knock and her assistant came in, chattering about the car that had arrived for the gala. The spell was broken. Just like that, Turquoise was rescued.
4
A monumental cheer went up as Robin departed the couch on a weekend talk show. Since the wrap of The Launch, and in particular the hysterical rumours she had endured about a certain male contestant, she was frontline on every major TV channel.
‘How about that—Robin Ryder, ladies and gentlemen!’
She turned at the green room and waved. The slot had gone great, the funnyman host’s wisecracks matched evenly by her quick humour and steady banter. As usual she’d been asked about her unorthodox childhood, and was able by now to rely on the stock phrases settled upon by her management. At first it had been painful dredging all that up, it wasn’t as if she wanted to be reminded every day, but in surrendering those facts to the public, in sharing them, the shame had lessened and the impact was gradually relinquishing its hold.
In her dressing room she changed out of the gown her stylist had picked and swopped it for a bold-print playsuit and leggings, which she teamed with lace-up boots and a pink bolero. A slick of lipstick and she was set. It was eleven p.m. and the night was young. She was meeting her girlfriends at London nightspot Kiss-Kiss, and rumour had it that supergroup LA hip-hop crew Puff City would be there. Robin was a disciple of their work; it was brave and righteous and took no prisoners, everything she aspired to in her own music, and their main man Slink Bullion was a legendary producer and collaborator. She wanted to sound him out about a joint project. Her people had said they would speak to his, but nothing could convince Robin that there was a better way than talking face to face.
When she arrived, the club was hammering a dirty, sexy stream of beats, and was packed with grinding bodies. Robin was taken through a concealed entrance towards an alcove. Kiss-Kiss had been built on the relics of an old church. From vaulted ceilings dripped bruised candelabra, huge colour-stained windows depicted rock gods old and new, while a glittering altar boasted a fearsome set of decks from which bled the new religion: music.
Robin spotted Polly’s beehive right away and her friends Sammy and Belle. It had been difficult to form bonds with people in her old life, moved as she was from place to place, and it was only when she’d quit the system and gone it alone that she had been able to make her own choices. That had brought with it a whole heap of struggle but at least it had been a struggle she’d had a say in—and through it she’d met Sammy and Belle, people who knew her before all this took off. Sammy had been the one who had encouraged her to audition for The Launch in the first place.
‘Check out the bar,’ said Belle as she sat down. They already had a rainbow of free drinks on the go and Robin helped herself. ‘We’re in for a treat.’
‘What is it?’
‘Jax Jackson and Leon Sway.’
She couldn’t believe it. ‘You have to be kidding me.’
The last thing she wanted was to encounter that self-righteous idiot, and enduring the attentions of Jax Jackson wasn’t far behind. Jax might be an Olympian but he didn’t do it for her: he was a notorious womaniser and by all accounts a chauvinist. The fact he had the Hugh Hefner bunny tattooed on his bicep along with the strapline Come and Play said it all, really.
‘I thought those guys were sworn enemies,’ Robin observed. Leon was silver to Jax’s gold: the men were archrivals, on the track and off. Word was they couldn’t stand each other.
‘Maybe they called a truce,’ suggested Sammy.
Polly scoffed. ‘Gimme a break: you should see how much coverage they get in the States. It’s insane. They’re, like, hotter than Hollywood. For the first time Jax has got some stiff competition. Testosterone, girls: he’s freaking about the guy on his tail—’
‘Stiff competition? A guy on his tail?’ Robin prompted the others to giggle. ‘Now there’s a story I’d be interested in.’
‘Jax’d sooner die,’ commented Belle wryly. ‘Talk about macho alpha bollocks.’
The same went for Leon, evidently. Robin was filled with fury remembering his indiscretion. She tried to see